Ford County (28 page)

Miss Ruby has disappeared! A split second after I realize her
seat is empty, I hear her giggle in the backseat. Of course the dome light doesn’t work, probably hasn’t in twenty years or so. It’s dark back there, and I do not turn around. “You guys okay?” I ask, much like a babysitter.

“You betcha,” Lyle says.

“There’s more room back here,” Miss Ruby says. After ten minutes, I excuse myself again, and I go for a long walk, across the lot to the very back row and through an old fence, up an incline to the foot of an ancient tree where beer cans are scattered around a broken picnic table, evidence left behind by teenagers too young or too poor to buy tickets to the show. I sit on the rickety table and have a clear view of the screen in the distance. I count seven cars and two pickups, paying customers. The one nearest Miss Ruby’s Cadillac still honks at just the right moments. Her car shines from the reflection on the screen. As far as I can tell, it is perfectly still.

My shift begins at 9:00 p.m., and I’m never late. Queen Wilma Drell confirmed in writing that Mr. Spurlock was to return promptly by 9:00, so with thirty minutes to go, I amble back to the car, break up whatever is happening in the backseat, if anything, and announce it’s time to leave.

“I’ll just stay back here,” Miss Ruby says, giggling, her words a bit slurred, which is unusual since she’s immune to the booze.

“You okay, Mr. Spurlock?” I ask as I crank the engine.

“You betcha.”

“You guys enjoy the movies?”

Both roar with laughter, and I realize they are drunk. They
giggle all the way to Miss Ruby’s house, and it’s very amusing. She says good night as we transfer to my Beetle, and as Mr. Spurlock and I head toward Quiet Haven, I ask, “Did you have fun?”

“Great. Thanks.” He’s holding a Schlitz, number three as far as I can tell, and his eyes are half-closed.

“What’d ya’ll do in the backseat?”

“Not much.”

“She’s nice, isn’t she?”

“Yes, but she smells bad. All that perfume. Never thought I’d be in the backseat with Ruby Clements.”

“You know her?”

“I figured out who she is. I’ve lived here for a long time, son, and I can’t remember much. But there was a time when most everybody knew who she was. One of her husbands was a cousin to one of my wives. I think that’s right. A long time ago.”

You gotta love small towns.

Our next excursion, two weeks later, is to the Civil War battlefield at Brice’s Crossroads, about an hour from Clanton. Like most old Southerners, Mr. Spurlock claims to have ancestors who fought gallantly for the Confederacy. He still carries a grudge and can get downright bitter on the subject of Reconstruction (“never happened”) and Yankee carpetbaggers (“thievin’ bastards”).

I check him out early one Tuesday, and under the watchful and disapproving eye of Queen Wilma Drell we escape in my little Beetle and leave Quiet Haven behind. I stop at a convenience
store, buy two tall cups of stale coffee, some sandwiches and soft drinks, and we’re off to refight the war.

I really couldn’t care less about the Civil War, and I don’t get all this lingering fascination with it. We, the South, lost and lost big. Get over it. But if Mr. Spurlock wants to spend his last days dreaming of Confederate glory and what might have been, then I’ll give it my best. In the past month I’ve read a dozen war books from the Clanton library, and there are three more in my room at Miss Ruby’s.

At times he’s sharp with the details—battles, generals, troop movements—and at other times he draws blanks. I keep the conversation on my latest hot topic—the preservation of Civil War battlefields. I rant about the destruction of the sacred grounds, especially in Virginia, where Bull Run and Fredericksburg and Winchester have been decimated by development. This gets him worked up, then he nods off.

On the ground, we look at a few monuments and battlefield markers. He’s convinced that his grandfather Joshua Spurlock was wounded in the course of some heroic maneuver during the battle at Brice’s Crossroads. We sit on a split-rail fence and eat sandwiches for lunch, and he gazes into the distance in a forlorn trance, as if he’s waiting for the sounds of cannon and horses. He talks about his grandfather, who died in either 1932 or 1934, somewhere around the age of ninety. When Lyle was a boy, his grandfather delighted him with stories of killing Yankees and getting shot and fighting with Nathan Bedford Forrest, the greatest of all Southern commanders. “They were at Shiloh together,” he said. “My grandfather took me there once.”

“Would you like to go again?” I ask.

He breaks into a grin, and it’s obvious that he’d love to see the battlefield again. “It’d be a dream,” he says, moisture in his eyes.

“I can arrange that.”

“I want to go in April, when the battle was fought, so I can see the Peach Orchard and the Bloody Pond and the Hornet’s Nest.”

“You have my promise. We’ll go next April.” April was five months away, and given my track record, I doubted if I would still be employed at Quiet Haven. But if not, nothing would prevent me from visiting my friend Lyle and taking him on another road trip.

He sleeps most of the way back to Clanton. Between naps, I explain that I am involved with a national group working to preserve Civil War battlefields. The group is strictly private, no help from the government, and thus depends on donations. Since I obviously earn little, I send a small check each year, but my uncle, who’s stout, sends large checks at my request.

Lyle is intrigued by this.

“You could always include them in your will,” I say.

No reaction. Nothing. I leave it alone.

We return to Quiet Haven, and I walk him to his room. As he’s taking off his sweater and his shoes, he thanks me for a “great day.” I pat him on the back, tell him how much I enjoyed it too, and as I’m leaving, he says, “Gill, I don’t have a will.”

I act surprised, but then I’m not. The number of people, especially those in nursing homes, who have never bothered with
a will is astounding. I feign a look of shock, then disappointment, then I say, “Let’s talk about it later, okay? I know what to do.”

“Sure,” he says, relieved.

At 5:30 the following morning, the halls deserted, the lights still off, everyone asleep or supposed to be, I’m at the front desk reading about General Grant’s Southern campaign when I’m startled by the sudden appearance of Ms. Daphne Groat. She’s eighty-six, suffers from dementia, and is confined to the Back Wing. How she managed to pass through the locked door is something I’ll never know.

“Come quick!” she hisses at me, teeth missing, voice hollow and weak.

“What’s the matter?” I ask as I jump up.

“It’s Harriet. She’s on the floor.”

I sprint to the Back Wing, punch in the code, pass through the thick locked door, and race down the hall to room 158, where Ms. Harriet Markle has lived since I went through puberty. I flip on the light to her room, and there she is, on the floor, obviously unconscious, naked except for black socks, lying in a sickening pool of vomit, urine, blood, and her own waste. The stench buckles my knees, and I’ve survived many jolting odors. Because I’ve been in this situation before, I react instinctively. I quickly pull out my little camera, take four photos, stick it back into my pocket, and go for help. Ms. Daphne Groat is nowhere to be seen, and no one else is awake on the wing.

There is no attendant on duty. Eight and a half hours earlier, when our shift began, a woman by the name of Rita had checked in at the front desk, where I was at the time, and then headed to the Back Wing. She was on duty, alone, which is against the rules because two attendants are required back there. Rita is now gone. I sprint to the North Wing, grab an attendant named Gary, and together we swing into action. We put on rubber gloves, sanitary masks, and boots and quickly get Ms. Harriet off the floor and back into her bed. She is breathing, but barely, and she has a gash just above her left ear. Gary scrubs her while I mop up the mess. When the situation is somewhat cleaner, I call an ambulance, and then I call Nurse Angel and Queen Wilma. By this time, others have been awakened and we’ve drawn a crowd.

Rita is nowhere to be seen. Two attendants, Gary and me, for fifty-two residents.

We bandage her wound, put on clean underwear and a gown, and while Gary guards her bed, I dash to the wing desk to check the paperwork. Ms. Harriet has not been fed since noon the day before—almost eighteen hours—and her meds have also been neglected. I quickly photocopy all the notes and entries because you can bet they’ll be tampered with in a matter of hours. I fold the copies and stick them into a pocket.

The ambulance arrives, and Ms. Harriet is loaded up and taken away. Nurse Angel and Ms. Drell huddle nervously with each other and begin flipping through the paperwork. I return to the South Wing and lock the evidence in a drawer. I’ll take it home in a few hours.

The following day, a man in a suit arrives from some regional office and wants to interview me about what happened. He’s not a lawyer, those will show up later, and he’s not particularly bright. He begins by explaining to Gary and me exactly what he thinks we saw and did during the crisis, and we let him ramble. He goes on to assure us that Ms. Harriet was properly fed and medicated—it’s all right there in the notes—and that Rita had simply gone outside for a smoke and fell ill, which required her to dash home for a moment before returning, only to find the “unfortunate” situation relative to Ms. Harriet.

I play dumb, my speciality. Gary does too; it’s more natural for him, but he’s also worried about his job. I am not. The idiot finally leaves, and does so with the impression that he has eased into our little redneck town and skillfully put out yet another fire for good old HVQH Group.

Ms. Harriet spends a week in the hospital with a cracked skull. She lost a lot of blood, and there’s probably some more brain damage, though how the hell can you measure it? Regardless, it’s a beautiful lawsuit, in the hands of the right person.

Because of the popularity of these lawsuits, and the sheer number of vultures circling nursing homes, I have learned that one must move with haste. My lawyer is an old friend named Dexter Ridley, from Tupelo, a man I turn to on occasion. Dex is about fifty, with a couple of wives and lives under his belt, and he made the decision a few years ago that he could not survive in the business by drawing up deeds and filing no-fault divorces. Dex stepped up a notch and became a litigator, though he seldom actually goes
to trial. His real talent is filing big lawsuits, then huffing and puffing until the other side settles. He’s got billboards with his smiling face on them scattered around north Mississippi.

I drive to Tupelo on a day off, show him the color photos of Ms. Harriet naked and bleeding, show him the copies of the attendants’ notes, both before the tampering and after, and we strike a deal. Dex kicks into high gear, contacts the family of Harriet Markle, and within a week of the incident notifies HVQH that they have a real problem. He won’t mention me and my photos and my purloined records until he has to. With such inside information, the case will likely be settled quickly, and I’ll be unemployed once again.

By order from the home office, Ms. Wilma Drell suddenly becomes very nice. She calls me in and tells me that my performance has improved so dramatically that I’m getting a raise. From six bucks an hour to seven, and I’m not to tell anyone else on the floor. I give her a load of sappy thanks, and she’s convinced we’re bonding now.

Late that night, I read Mr. Spurlock a magazine story about a developer in Tennessee who’s trying to bulldoze a neglected Civil War battlefield so he can throw up another strip mall and some cheap condos. The locals and the preservation types are fighting, but the developer has the money and the politics on his side. Lyle is upset by this, and we talk at length about ways to help the good guys. He doesn’t mention his last will and testament, and it’s still too soon for me to make a move.